


Promises, Promises

by LadyFeste



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Epic Bromance, Gen, Great Hiatus, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words burn in Holmes' ears, the promises implied and broken on both sides haunting him even from beyond his self-imposed grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doing some more crossposting from an older thing. This was a piece with an experimental style. Thought about bringing it into the 21st century and rewriting it for Sherlock, but I think we can all do with a bit of gaslamp Holmes and Watson now and then. Hope you enjoy!

Sometimes, but not always, Watson is terrified of heights. Holmes suspects this all along (despite several close calls in high places with no negative effects), but doesn’t actually know for sure until a case leads them to the roof of a tall business (he has long forgotten the name) just before the criminal sets off some kind of explosive on the first floor. 

The building shakes and the roof cracks, and a curious light of panic he has never seen before materializes in his Watson’s eye. Blindly, before Holmes can stop him, he leaps from the collapsing roof to the much studier building next door—a fifteen foot jump and twenty-five foot drop, but Watson makes it easily and lands on his feet. His bad leg trembles, but does not give way. 

Holmes’ jaw loosens, but before he can utter his cry of surprise, another explosion shudders through the building. Holmes takes off and jumps before the roof collapses any further. 

His jump is short. He is not propelled by fear as Watson was. 

His fingers strain and catch the edge of the roof. His body swings forward and slams into the side of the building. His nose is bloodied, maybe broken. Pain stuns him and he loses his weak grip. A strangled cry (Watson’s or his own, he will never know) barely registers in his ears before larger, stronger hands than his seize his own and stop him from falling more than an inch. He looks up—Watson is half-leaning over the edge, holding his wrists in a death grip, an icy determination in his eyes. The whiteness of the line of his lip is the only thing that betrays his fear—of the height or the danger, he is not sure. 

He blinks up at the face in mild confusion. “Watson?” he asks, for he can hardly believe this focused, hard-faced, wild-haired stone of a man and his mild-mannered doctor are the same person. 

“I will not let you fall, Holmes,” he says, his vehemence almost tangible but his tone quiet and casual. The voices are the same, his Watson’s and this stranger’s. Same relaxed rhythm, same hidden strength, same note of humor. “I will _never_ let you fall.” 

And he doesn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

There are some things about Reichenbach that Holmes and Watson will never tell each other. About what happened to each after they were separated, the other only knows the lies they were not quite convincingly fed, and neither will ask further. 

Watson will never tell Holmes that he always had hope in his survival, always half-believed he was really alive.

Watson will never tell Holmes that he pulled Moriarty from the river below the falls, alive and relatively whole (a compound fracture in his left leg, ten broken ribs, two dislocated shoulders, internal bleeding, but what is that compared to instant death?) and if the professor could survive the fall, so could the detective.

He will never tell Holmes that he pulled Moriarty away from the river (going over a rocky shoal in the process, which is probably what really killed him) and abandoned him far enough away from the water that there was no danger of drowning.

He will never tell Holmes that Moriarty _did_ drown—in his own blood—because Watson did nothing to heal him or ease his pain, so distracted was he in finding his friend.

He will never say out loud that he screamed for Holmes until his voice cracked and his throat hurt for days.

Holmes will never know he developed a fever from staying in the water so long and not looking after himself properly on the way back to London—a fever that lasted several weeks and nearly killed him twice.

Holmes will never know about the letters—well-wishes, criminal threats, notes proclaiming life from fake detectives, job offers from up-and-coming consulting detectives who all burnt out within the week and worded their requests as if he were a dog or prize—that flooded his home until the following spring. 

He will never tell Holmes that Moriarty’s death weighs on his conscience. 

Holmes will never tell Watson that Moriarty pushed _him_ over the edge first—he managed to bring Moriarty down with him and catch himself on a rock ledge.

He will never tell Watson that he climbed down the cliff, fell the last seven feet in exhaustion, and struck his head on a stone.

Watson will never know that Holmes was unconscious and less than fifty feet away from the time he found Moriarty to the time he stopped screaming.

Holmes will never tell Watson that when he did wake he could not move and feared he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life.

Watson will never know that Holmes’s brain started working comprehensively in time to hear Watson give up, break down, and weep for the first time since his brother’s death.

Or that Holmes watched, numb all over and physically unable to speak while his only friend in the world cursed himself for an idiot and begged forgiveness for breaking his promise.

Watson will never know that Holmes began to regain feeling in his legs and arms an hour after Watson’s departure, or that he cried (something he hadn’t done since childhood) in relief when he was able to sit up.

Holmes will never tell Watson that he still could not speak for months afterward and only went to Tibet because he would not be required to speak.

Watson will never know that Holmes had no idea what promise had been broken until the words _I will never let you fall_ echoed back into his ears, now sounding more like an _oath_ than a reassurance. 

He will never tell Watson his first words were “Oh, my dear fellow, you never did…I let go,” followed by a sob.


	3. Chapter 3

He is on his way out of Asia when the boredom strikes. 

Moran has caught up with him and he has not dared to leave his flat for three days. He has been unable to communicate with Mycroft for a month and he knows neither of them can take much more. But this is the first day he has actually been _bored_ and knows it for what it is. 

Old habits die hard.

He paces his room, thinking of cocaine. 

He dozes on the couch and thinks of cocaine. 

He catches a roach, names it Hamish, and runs half-hearted experiments with limited supplies until it escapes, still thinking of cocaine. 

He wraps all his pillows into a sheet, making a very lumpy punching back and thinks of cocaine. 

He fights out his frustrations, thinking of cocaine. 

He remembers purchasing a bottle on his way into Asia tossing it into the bottom of the rucksack he calls his suitcase. 

He finds it and only then realizes he’s thinking about it because, for once, he doesn’t want it. 

He throws it out the window, striking one of Moran’s cronies unconscious by accident, and feels much better. 

He dreams that night. He is fighting Moriarty on top of a London building, the Thames in the middle of the street beneath them, churning and roaring like a waterfall. Moriarty throws him off the roof, but he catches the professor about the ankle and both plummet downward. Moriarty splashes into the river. He himself does not fall long before Watson’s hands fly out of nowhere and grab his wrists. 

He jerks awake as Watson calls down the words, now plaguing him nightly and so hauntingly familiar— _I will never let you fall._  

It has more than one meaning.


	4. Chapter 4

_I will never let you fall._ The words beat themselves against Holmes’ ears, battering his brain, never letting him rest. _I will never let you fall._  

Three weeks since Mycroft sent him news of Mary Watson’s death. Two weeks since Mycroft told him there were children he didn’t know about—Jacob Sherlock, three days old, who died with his mother of complications through childbirth, and Lenora Marie, age two, who died of influenza within the week. One week since Mycroft told him he had seen Watson with his own two eyes and the man looked like Death itself. 

One day since he set foot on English soil once more. 

_I will never let you fall._ They mock him, Watson’s private promise, a lingering sign of loyalty when the man himself is absent. _I will never let you fall._  

Disguised as he is, he cannot help but stare as he sees Watson’s gaunt form; pale skin; greasy hair; hollow, blackened eyes… 

 _I will never let you fall._  

He is limping more heavily than usual, his shoulders hunched, all signs of levity vanished, bowed over with grief and loss. He knows, as well as he has taken care of himself, that he cannot look much better. He will hear Lestrade talk to the other inspectors later, insisting that neither he nor the doctor looked like either of them had gotten a full night’s sleep since before Reichenbach, and perhaps he is not far wrong. 

He can’t help but think, as those words assault his ears once more, that it is _he_ who broke Watson’s promise. 

Never again.


End file.
